>>24558806It’s been a few years since I read it, but I remember finding it really disappointing. Saunders’s short stories are great because of his innovative and thought-provoking premises, but those premises only work because the stories are short—he’s only required to induce the reader to very briefly suspend disbelief, meaning that there isn’t time for him to lose momentum, or for the reader’s immersion in the world of the story to break, or for weak spots and inconsistencies to become obvious. His short stories also never really require him to assume multiple fleshed-out perspectives—it’s easy to write about some strange phenomenon from one isolated point of view, but it’s much harder to sustain the conceit when you’re dealing with many different points of view.
In Lincoln in the Bardo he tries to structure a longer and more complex text around a typically Saundersian idea, but it quickly falls apart because it lacks substance. I really dislike the whole premise, because it just isn’t sophisticated or developed enough to provide adequate plot for a novel. It comes across as silly, rather than as charmingly eccentric. Many of the characters’ perspectives seem contrived and unconvincing, and it’s full of juvenile and crude attempts at humour that clash with the book’s more serious themes in a way that’s incredibly off-putting and bizarre.
And I’m not one to criticize books for expressing progressive ideals, if it’s done with skill and subtlety, but the whole exploration of gender and racial issues has a weirdly preachy and overly earnest feeling. The book attempts to assume the perspectives of all of these diverse characters from the 18th and 19th century, but the whole time I was excruciatingly aware of the fact that it was written by a milquetoast neoliberal white man who lacks meaningful first-person insight into these things and is desperate to show off how empathetic and concerned about the state of the world he is, and to align himself with the “right side of history.” It carries the same distinctly saccharine, neurotic, absurdly sincere feeling that pervades a lot of the books that were put out by writers of his demographic in the mid to late 2010s. It won the Booker Prize in the same year that Trump took office, and those two events were in no way unconnected, if that makes sense. It reeks of that whole cultural moment, and will not age well.